Beautiful Darkness
by anabasis
Summary: Every nation has a dark side, a second face only revealed in war and to those they trust... including everyone's favorite Hero. Russia ponders his lover's hidden self.


Warnings: Dark!America and mentions of RusAme. Don't like yaoi? Don't read.

Disclaimer: Characters of Hetalia belong to Hidekaz Himaruya. My headcanon belongs to me and any other Hetalia fan who shares it.

A/N: Inspired by a piece of art where Alfred cleans one of his guns while singing "My Favorite Things" from the Sound of Music and a book I read on the Gilded Age in one of my classes. No singing (or sex, sadly) in this, but Dark!America's sexy self makes up for it, right? As a side note, RusAme is my OTP so please don't complain about it in reviews or anything if you don't agree. Critiques and reviews in general, however, are always appreciated!

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><p>"What beautiful darkness..." He couldn't help but murmur to himself. Violet eyes leveled on the enigma who sat alone in the meeting room, expression relaxed since he had yet to notice his onlooker.<p>

He looked the same as ever, military uniform (his old WWII outfit long retired for the newer ones adopted by his various military branches), half hidden by his beloved bomber jacket. Texas was perched low on his nose and one eye was obscured by his wheat-gold hair as he focused on his task. Large, calloused hands made quick work in dissembling one of his many pistols with care. An old gray rag was used to methodically clean every inch of the killing machine in his hands, and, despite the cloth's ragged appearance, he treated both it and the gun as if they were religious relics.

In the presence of others he was loud and boisterous, oblivious and arrogant, but when he was out of the public's eye the mask fell away to reveal this. A dark, sinister look crept into sky blue eyes, turning them the cold gray of his New England storms. The sun-kissed skin seemed to deepen, the slightest browns and reds of his natives could be spotted in the shadows beneath his eyes, cheekbones, and in the curves of muscle in his neck and arms. The scent of whatever cologne he wore was easily overpowered by a clash of sawdust, sweat, and the faintest whiff of Georgia's moonshine or Louisiana's rum. His bright Californian accent slowed and deepened into a Southern drawl that seemed to echo in his chest before it dripped off his tongue as he spoke to himself or to one of those beloved guns, none more so than his infamous, twin Colt revolvers.

Had anyone brought themselves to his attention he would have reconstructed his facade in the blink of an eye. No one, save for a few (Canada, Japan, Mexico, and himself, for example), would have noticed that he had been any different. Maybe they would have sighed something about him being quiet for once, but they would not notice- no, they would not ACKNOWLEDGE the look they'd seen in his eyes or the cold chill of Alaska in the air. They would see the sunny man who never "shut the bloody hell up" or who would "interrupt the meeting one more time and I'm getting Switzerland-" "-I can't believe you ate fourteen Big Macs in the fifteen minute break we had for lunch, that's disgusting-" "-at least try to read The Atmosphere-" "-robot? That's impossible! If you have nothing useful to say, sit down and shut up-"

Hollywood must have made him the actor he was, or maybe it was due to tips picked up from his spies during the Cold War, either way, the world seemed happy to assume that he was exactly what they thought he was. A loud, obnoxious, idiot.

People often made that mistake with America. True, he could be infinitely kind and forgiving compared to some. He worked hard to gain approval and was willing to lend an open mind or comforting shoulder to cry on when needed. Alfred was a helping hand when it pleased him. He was a friend whose loyalty was unquestionable. However, that tie of friendship could easily be twisted into a noose. To cross the western superpower was a death warrant. Japan, one of the prime examples, had learned it well enough after Pearl Harbor. That had been the first time Ivan had looked at the nation as more than a bumbling idiot. That outstretched palm and overbearing smile contorted into a clawed hand with a grin looming behind it that would make England's Cheshire Cat bow his head in shame.

Russia was surprised at how easily they forgot that America's veins rushed and thrummed with savage blood. They could care less for the Manifest Destiny that was the marrow of his bones. Those of his Gilded Age corrupted his blood with blackening oil and fortified his frame with steel, but it was of no matter to nations who only saw that brilliant smile.

They had all witnessed 9/11. It was hard to forget it, though at first they had suspected nothing. It had been the usual meeting, despite Alfred being oddly restless for a reason even the hyperactive blonde couldn't discern. He had been in the middle of a presentation when he'd cut off, a small trail of blood sliding over bronzed skin from his left temple, a slower trickle of it following soon after from his nose. Before they could react he was already on his knees, hands clutched over his head as he curled in on himself in pain. Russia couldn't help but cheer slightly at seeing his rival in pain, but when they found out what caused it after another injury was added...

Alfred had shocked them, Ivan could clearly remember the look on his face as he had stood up on unsteady legs, not unlike those of a newborn foal. Slowly he had pieced himself together, shivers and winces held back by force of will alone. His expression, however, did not change once. Alfred's eyes mirrored dark sleet, lips held in a grim line with a slight turn upwards at one end. He remembered thinking that the American had almost looked... pleased. Not for his pain, or his people's, but he had, rather, been pleased by some dark thought locked away behind the glare of his glasses. The thought of revenge, perhaps?

Even now, years after the attack, Ivan longed to see his rival bear the same maniacal look that had allowed him to stand toe to toe with Ivan during the Cold War. Oh yes, others had bared their fangs at the great northern wastes of the Russian Empire and the Soviet Union, but all had that lingering fear in their speeches of soon-to-be-victories or in their whispers across tables brimming with maps and plans of attack. America had not. He still did not. He knew, without a doubt, that he would end the world if it meant defeating Russia. They shared that trait, that resilience to defeat. Extinction of mankind, destruction of the world, a thousand apocalypses and more were more favorable in their eyes than defeat.

"Like what ya see, Vanya?" A slow, honey-laced voice drifted through the quiet atmosphere of the near-empty hall. Russia turned his focus from his memories to the present, pulling himself from the increasingly dangerous train of thought. So, Alfred had finally noticed him?

He met the steady gaze of the younger nation, still open windows to a Gulf hurricane instead of the open sky of the Great Plains. He felt his lips turn up into his trademark smile as he moved closer to Alfred, excited that the other was treating him to such a rare peek at the inner cogs of the superpower outside of the battlefield and bedroom (though sometimes they were the same). The other returned the now pristine gun to its holster beneath his coat, fingers lingering on the metal before Alfred pulled away from it's siren song and towards another.

Ivan bent slightly to meet the rising hand, the powerful grip resting gently on the side of his face as long fingers threaded into his hair. He could feel the slightest bite of nails on his scalp and leaned closer to Alfred's face, his chilled breath mingling with the Mojave winds. The slight bite usually in his breath from the mint toothpaste America used was replaced by dry, almost dusty puffs of breath as if there was a dust storm raging in his lungs. Their lips brushed, eyes locked, bodies relaxed despite the ever present aggression that lined their movements. He could see how tight the nation's jaw was clenched and the muscles in his own body, while lax, twitched restlessly in preparation for some type of attack. Russia loved every second of this side's presence. The world could keep their pleasant, village idiot. He alone would hold the embodiment of Earth's demise, he would have the honor of making him bend beneath him in faked submission, and he would be the one to break under this man's whip only to turn against him with chains.

They were perfect, but this was no place for their poisoned love. Russia pulled away, turning his back on the other without pause to take his seat at the opposite end of the table. The chatter of the other nations and the sounds of their steps grew closer. Alfred's taunting chuckle nipped at his heels and his words made the fine hairs on his neck and arms stand, even beneath his coat and scarf.

"Room 247."

Germany pushed open the doors suddenly, Italy slipping beneath his arm to bounce into the room before the broad nation could even cross the threshold. England and France followed behind, arguing about anything and everything. China was looking worriedly through a folder, muttering to himself as if he had lost something (a stack of papers detailing a new, secret defense policy proposal that was currently sitting on Russia's desk in his hotel room). Japan was last, closing the door quietly before taking his own seat.

Ivan glanced at Alfred one last time before he was hidden away by that shield that separated him from the rest of the world. He would be aching tomorrow, he could tell. No matter who topped, those irises across the oaken table were swimming with blood lust. Already he could feel jagged nails from hours spent tinkering in garages on cars and planes scraping over his thighs and back. He felt blunt teeth tearing their way up his spine and over his neck. A hint of the possible the burn of a punch or two, should America felt like making him work for it, ghosting over his chest and face.

"HEY IGGY!" And away went his love.

"Bloody hell, what have I told you about calling me that?"

"Not to, but I don't really care sooo~"

"Why you insufferable git, I ought to-"

With a forlorn sigh Russia leaned back into his chair, ignoring the confused glance from Japan who had obviously heard it. His America would return later in the temporary haven of foreign food, unfamiliar sheets, and thin hotel walls. He closed his eyes as he heard Germany join in to try and quiet the bickering nations. Ivan imagined the cold lands he could see from his backyard and the wicked deserts of the Southwest. There was a broad sweep of endless, winding roads that would lead you to No Man's Land and back in the Bread Basket. He pictured the unforgiving cities of the North and the two-faced South. He painted the stunning profile of his cruel lover on the backs of his eyelids with ease, his bright smile like a crescent moon, each ivory tombstone of a tooth lined with Russia's blood.

What beautiful, beautiful darkness.

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><p>AN: I feel like I forgot a character at the meeting… Oh well, they must not be that important if I couldn't remember them!

Kumajirou: Who?


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